


Benediction

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Begging, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-26
Updated: 2007-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begging; pleading in a stolen moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> Because porn is good, and I'm trying to get a feel for these two before I have to write a lot of challenge fic for them.

Papers and files fly across the room, thrown from the desk by an impatient arm. An impatient mind. Mohinder’s back hits the desk, hard, and the breath is knocked out of him. Then lips are on his, harsh and demanding, and it doesn’t matter that he can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter that his body hurts and his mind is repulsed and every ounce of his sense is screaming for him to run.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t move as powerful arms push him down, hands fisting in dark curls, bringing their faces together again. He doesn’t have time to breathe before he is invaded, dominated, by sharp teeth and a deft tongue. The hatred he carries for this man tightens like a vise on his mind.

His desire for this man opens everything else.

Hands roam possessively over his lithe body; white on bronze, trailing fire wherever they touch. He moans softly, an uncontrollable impulse, as they trace idle paths down his ribs, his stomach, his ass, teasing him with frost-coated fingers. He gasps at the chill, writhing wantonly against the invasion, closing his eyes tightly as the ice melts within him. The man pants against his skin, harsh breath heating and cooling the delicate curve of his ear. A hot mouth closes around his earlobe, sucking hard, and all he can do is arch into the touch, every molecule in his body yearning to be taken. His stomach turns as his assailant meets his gaze; dark eyes meeting dark eyes, a perfect mirror of fear and lust.

It is unbearable, the fire and ice. The sensations overtaking him as this man, this madman, works his body, unyielding and aggressive in his assault. Those full lips that kissed him lazily and drew out his pleasure once upon a time, once upon another name, leave blazing imprints on his skin, moving lower and lower until all he can do is buck against his will, hips held fast by an invisible pressure.

He throws his head back and it strikes the desk, hard, but he doesn’t feel it. His entire world has narrowed to twisting fingers and a tight, wet mouth and relentless throbbing _sensation._ He hears himself keening but can’t stop, can’t stop his hand from seizing thick, dark locks and pulling hard. Pushing the man off or forcing him closer, he doesn’t know. He feels his assailant laugh, deep vibrations pulsing through his dick, electric shocks up his spine, shattering his senses. He feels the too-quick swipe of a burning tongue; the dangerous hint of teeth scraping his sensitive skin. He wants to scream, wants more, and the fingers inside him curl sharply, making him gasp and thrash and he’s _almost_ there…

And the man pulls away. The absence is a physical ache; it hurts so badly he could cry. It lasts only a second before a soft hand brushes his cheek. He turns his face into it, desperate for contact, pressing a kiss into the palm. A rough thumb runs over his lips and he opens his mouth, licking and sucking the digit with abandon. He hears the man breathing, shallow and erratic, and he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care what this man has done, what this man _still_ does, what he can never _stop_ doing; doesn’t care about the blood on his hands, doesn’t care about revenge…

“Mohinder, open your eyes.”

The voice is dark velvet and he obeys. The eyes that meet his are red-rimmed, tortured, fiery with desire. It brings him back for a moment, and he brings his hand up to cover the one on his face. The man’s eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch, and he sighs deeply.

“What do you want, Mohinder?”

He responds by locking his hands behind the man’s neck, pulling him forward, bringing their bodies tightly together. His head falls back again as hips meet, his voice a breathy rasp he doesn’t recognize.

“You. I want you.”

Strong hands run down his legs, coaxing his knees up.

“Then say it.” Slick fingers tease him again, maddening and slow. One hand caresses his thigh, drawing his leg up against a pale chest, hooking his knee over a broad shoulder. The fingers withdraw and he pants hungrily, feeling the heat of the man’s erection against his needy flesh.

“Say it.”

“I want you… _Sylar._ ”

Then it’s almost perfection, hot and insistent and just _there_. He arches up, needing more, wanting it all and rough and _now_. But he is held back. Sylar presses forward slowly, determined to make this last as long as possible.

The man underneath him writhes and sighs; this isn’t how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be hard and bloody, was supposed to hurt, goddamnit, be violent; was supposed to be something he could look back on later and know he didn’t have a choice.

He was supposed to be taken by force. Not this tender onslaught of his senses that leaves him breathless. The man above him shivers and stills, hands ghosting down his ribcage to grip his hips firmly. The moment is brief and infinite, and as Mohinder’s eyes meet the passionate stare that devours him, he understands.

He wasn’t in love with Zane. It was never Zane. That name meant nothing; means nothing. It was always and only…

“Sylar, _please._ ”

Sylar’s eyes close at the plea, and he thrusts harder, faster, falling forward against the willing body beneath him. Mohinder’s knees are pressed against his chest, trapped beneath his lover’s weight and he moans, high and pleading. The feel of the man above him, inside him, surrounding him, drives the breath from his body. Sounds escape his throat, meaningless syllables, and all he wants is to be closer. All he wants is to _never_ stop.

His is not the only voice in the room, and the deep rumble of Sylar’s voice gradually resolves itself into words. An endless litany as he moves faster still, deeper, and the lines between them blur and fade.

“Forgive me, forgive me, oh god _Mohinder_ …”

And the sound of his name on those lips, that dark resonance begging him, is enough to push him over the edge. He finds his release, shaking and powerless between the desk, his lover’s chest, trapped between worlds.

Sylar follows him, screaming his name and collapsing, breathless against him. The world narrows again, to sweat on skin and rapid breath, and hands that caress him cautiously, lovingly. Names don’t matter, the past doesn’t matter, and Mohinder brings Sylar’s face to his, kissing him deeply, absolution singing in every nerve ending. Tomorrow is uncertain; always has been, but here and now he owes everything to this man, this man _owns_ everything he is.

The eyes that meet his are tear-stained, disbelieving. The mouth on his is desperate, aching for contact. He smiles at the role reversal and wraps his arms around Sylar’s back, holding him close. Soon he will have to let go, accept consequences, deal with the history and difficulties this man presents. But he can’t right now, just as hungry for acceptance as his counterpart. A soothing tongue licks the sweat from his neck and he gasps again, wild with emotion.

“Stay with me” he breathes, knowing the answer will be no, knowing this night can never repeat itself. For both their sakes. For the sake of the world.

Sylar pauses, petrified. He wants to stay, so badly, to fall asleep in the soft circle of Mohinder’s arms. But when the sun rises; the morning comes there will be nothing certain, and his decision is taking his own life in his hands. He is turning his destiny over to a man who would have gladly seen him dead.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, I will.”

A bright smile is his reward, and he takes that delicate hand in his, following mindlessly. He is led to a blinding white bed, and dark fingers urge him down, touching him softly, as the body he has wanted for so long wraps around his; elegant neck fitting the curve of his shoulder perfectly. He presses a kiss against the doctor’s forehead and the man stirs, sleepily, before burrowing further into his embrace.

And for the first time in years, Sylar sleeps, contented.


End file.
